Definitions
by Tough Fluff
Summary: Tristan was forced to contemplate his past and his old beliefs when he was wide awake in the crack of dawn.


I feel like it is my duty to warn you of the forthcoming boredom that could be resulted by reading this fic.  Remember, this is a one-shot reflection type thingy circa Tristan-just-got-into-military-school.  Hence, there will be no future additions (don't bother checking) or happy trory resolutions.  

Also, the most exciting interaction will be between Hotass (Yea, I'm blatantly stealing that word from you) and a brush.  The lack of dialogue will significantly jack up the boredom factor of this fic.  Other than that, thank you guys for reviewing my previous fics and enjoy.  Enter at your own risk.

Disclaimer: The only thing I know is that someone else higher up on the food chain owns the Gilmore Girls.  Suing a poor little Canadian girl like me is simply an economically reckless move. 

**Definitions**

Tristan added an extra bit of elbow grease as he diligently scrubbed the bathroom tiles, stopping occasionally only to mutter a few mild expletives.  

The sun had barely risen above the horizon.  The scenery was still under the mysterious cloak of the morning fog.  All is quiet except for a few sporadic echoes, courtesy of the native nocturnal animals.  This is a time when most _Homo sapiens_ were asleep, since they weren't considered as nocturnal animals.  All but one.  Welcome to military school, hope you'd enjoy your stay. 

Tristan pondered his current predicament as his dipped the brush into the bucket of soapy of water.  He would've laughed if someone told him three months ago that he would end up in North Carolina performing manual labour.  Three months ago, he was playing the final polo game of the season.  Correction: winning the final polo game of the season.  A Dugrey never lost.  Whoever said that winning and losing didn't matter obviously wasn't a Dugrey.  

Even his definition for extracurricular activities was different than the conventional definition.  Then again, most of his life didn't follow the strict descriptions of the Webster's dictionary.  

He used the word military school loosely to describe his current residence.  It is a military school in the sense that they meticulously endorsed morning push-ups and other principles such as obedience and discipline.  But the guy sleeping in the bunk bed below you was not an average Joe with a behavioural problem.  It's very possible that he was the heir to the country's largest fibre-optics company … with a behavioural problem.  

When he first heard of military school, he thought this would be a chance for him to start fresh.  He could wipe the slate clean and meet real, genuine friends that befriended him because of him, not the number of zeros in his bank account.  But the moment he stepped through the door, he knew he was in for a surprise.  This was a place tailored for spoiled rich kids, and he was one of them.  

Compared to others, they lived in a sterile parallel universe, where they were segregated from all conventional rules.  It was foolish for him to expect any hint of normalcy in his life.  After all, even something as simple as his wardrobe was unconventional.  Him and his fellow Chiltonites were probably the privileged few in the country who could boast having a larger collection of Saville Row than Old Navy T-shirts.  

Those differences were even more painfully apparent in his day-to-day life.  To him, party meant watching adults drank a copious amount of alcoholic beverages and watching the consequent reactions of them drinking a copious amount of alcoholic beverages.  In less words, boring as hell.

Of course, he had also experienced the frat-styled keg parties and other parties that suited his age group better.  But they were also filled with people consuming too much alcohol and people conducting unintelligent actions because of the abundance of alcohol in their bloodstream.  Besides, the presence of imported beverages and gourmet hors d'oeuvres had given the whole thing a more adult flare.  The only difference was that he didn't need to wear a tux.

There was a time when he was attending one of those stuffy benefit balls that he overheard an observant remark.  A girl of somewhat his age told her companion, "We are WASPs.  The only time we ever talk to our parents is when we wanted to adjust or monthly trust fund allowance.  And that is only if we didn't voice our demands directly to our lawyers already."  Nobody summed up his relationship with his parents as accurately as her.  

He was taught that love was a word that could only be used in conjunction with other words such as Porsche, Cartier bracelet, and purebred Schnauzer.  The L word was not intended to appear alongside words such as date, parents, husbands, wives, or siblings.  Somewhere, there's a rulebook forbidding them to love another human being.  You may loathe them; you may tolerate them; you may even mildly like them; but you may never love them.  

No wonder therapists didn't come cheap.  Their occupation was originally catered to people who spent too much time in an empty mansion and were emotionally detached.  It was not until people saw _Ally McBeal_ and _The Sopranos_ did their clientele broadened.  

To be honest, he knew his life was different than the ones shown on TV.  The families in the idiot box would sit down together and have a somewhat normal dinner.  But he thought those could just be an exaggeration.  After all, he grew up around people like him, and frankly, he didn't have much of a frame of reference.  

He didn't know the gap was _that_ wide … until she appeared in his life.

He scrubbed the tiles with more gusto than he intended as the image of the fair-skinned girl materialized in his head.  Under his persistent scrubbing, the tiles were slowly revealing its original lustre.  Though he could try just as hard, he knew he could never scrub away the image of her the way he scrubbed away the caked-on scum.  

At first, his instincts told him to hate her.  He hated her, not only because she made him experienced the bitter taste of defeat by shunning his approaches.  He hated her because she brought along a new set of definitions for those familiar words.  She was foreign; she stood out among the fellow Chiltonites.  She was unwelcome because she made him doubt his old beliefs.  

  Suddenly, there was a yardstick to measure him against the rest of the world outside his social circle.  Her existence reminded him of the voids in his life.  He pursued her with all his might, hoping to squeeze into her world.  He thought by being close to her, he could regain all the stuff he missed through her.  She's probably his only chance for redemption.  

She gave him a glimpse of a world that was foreign to him and before he knew it, he had discarded all his instincts and openly courted with the unknown.  He wanted her, not only because of her nonchalant perfection contrasted with the artificial beauty around her.  He wanted her because he wanted to be a part of her world.  A world where the word love was not reserved for inanimate objects.  

He saw the warmth and affection in her mother's eyes when she picked her up after school.  The sight of them spending and extended period of time in each other's presence willingly was astonishing for him.  The last time he exchanged more than five sentences with his mother was during his maternal grandfather's funeral, and that was three years ago.

He provoked her, thinking that by doing so, he might receive some of that warmth.  But the only reaction he got was her cold shoulder if not for the occasional sharp-witted retort.  At first, he thought she was playing hard to catch, or that she had changed the rules of the familiar game.  He simply tried harder, and in hindsight, became even more irritating to her.  

It wasn't until he had separated himself from her by being on exile did he realized the reason behind his failure.  She didn't care about the rules because she wasn't playing the game.  She didn't buy into his world of games, lies, and deceit.  She ignored the hierarchy of power within Chilton by remaining true to her set of definitions.  Even when she was standing before him, they were still a world apart.  

Rory Gilmore lived in a world of truth and affection, words that did not exist in his vocabulary.  And he was head over heels in love with her because of that.


End file.
